


Slander and Libel

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [20]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2391866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny and Vastra have finally caught their man...but so have the police?! Our heroines fear that the second suspect may be innocent, but can they prove it amidst the conspiracies leveled against them? And will anyone believe them with their reputation in tatters?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slander and Libel

“You can talk about that once I've taken our good friend here to the station,” McGovern informs them.

“Oh no,” Vastra says, emerging from the train. “We will discuss it while we help you arrest Mr. DeMarco. He has eluded us far too often for us to let him slip away now.”

“Well, you've certainly caught him now,” McGovern points out, slapping a pair of handcuffs onto DeMarco. “So much for what they've been saying in the papers about you having lost a step.”

Jenny bristles, but Vastra demurs. “We can hardly be given too much credit for having been in the right place at the right time. No, the credit should go to the rest of you.”

“To be fair,” Nellie points out, “we were just in the right place at the right time ourselves.”

“I thought it was going to be a trap,” Anaya adds. “Turned out we were on the right side of it.” They explain the past few days' events to Jenny and Vastra as they flag a pair of cabs. 

“There must be more to this than just DeMarco, some greater scheme,” Vastra decides. “To go so long without leaving a clue, and then to blunder into our grasp at the last is beyond the ability of a madman,” for DeMarco is grinning like a loon. 

“More than you'll ever know,” he tells them, and climbs into the carriage after McGovern. 

“What did you mean by that?” Vastra demands, pulling Anaya in after her. The murders, the news stories, the psychic field...how far did this go? But she is met with only silence until they reach the station.

***

“Do you think he is mad?” Nellie asks as the second carriage fills up.

“I withhold my opinion until I have had the chance to examine him in more detail,” Doyle states.

“Does it matter?” Jenny asks.

“We don't kill people for being sick,” Nellie reminds them. “We treat them. If he didn't have a choice in the matter, either because he was unwell, or because he was possessed by this psychic field, then he deserves our sympathy, not the gallows.”

“We put mad dogs down all the time,” Henry reminds her, “because they're dangerous. He's killed over a dozen people; we can't just let that go.”

“No, I suppose not,” Nellie agrees, and sits quietly for a moment. “Well, I shall wait to pass judgment until I see more of his mind if you will,” she offers.

“That sounds fair to me,” Henry says with a nod, and turns to Jenny. “So, how was your vacation?” Jenny laughs, and recounts the story of the past few days.

***

The timing had been a very near thing, he thinks, but he has pulled it off, as he knew he would. One step closer to vengeance against the Doctor and his friends. Now, he had a story to inspire.

***

“What do you mean, you already have a suspect in custody?” Vastra is frothing mad when she learns that the police have a different man under arrest for DeMarco's murders. “Then release him, straightaway! We have brought you the murderer.”

“Sorry, ma'am, we've just brought him in, and I can't do that until we've concluded a proper investigation,” Thompkins, the detective in charge of the case, tells her. “You must understand, this is a very serious case.”

“I understand perfectly,” Vastra growls. As satisfying as it might be to get into a brawl with a dozen policemen, it won't do her or anyone else any good. “May I speak with your prisoner?”

“There's one of our boys in there with him, but if he doesn't mind, then be my guest.” He nods towards a cell at the end of the row. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a prisoner to book and search.”

Vastra submits at last. After all, there is no reason that DeMarco couldn't have had an accomplice on his murder spree. And indeed, they had rather suspected a full-fledged conspiracy rather than a lone madman. So perhaps Scotland Yard had saved them a great deal of trouble and expense, rather than the other way around. She, Jenny, and Doyle rap on the bars of the cell, and the policeman, Spurlow, recognizing them, lets them in. Then again, she thinks, looking at the beleaguered Chinese man in the cell, it might be business as usual. 

“I've had my eye on this one for a while now,” Spurlow begins. “Keeps being around the crime scenes: the circus, the rally, and just picked him up bent over the most recent girl, finishing her off. And he owns more swords and knives than you can shake a stick at. Probably one of them ninjas,” Spurlow asserts. “I reckon he gets into an opium-fueled rage—you know how their type is, with those smoky dens of vice, tries to get alone with our nice English girls, and then he whips out his his blade when they say no.” He shrugs. “You're welcome to try to get more out of him than I have.” Spurlow says. “But I reckon I've got it pieced together pretty conclusively.” He leans back against the wall looking pleased as punch.

“Oh dear,” Jenny says. “Where to begin? Let's start with the fact that ninjas are Japanese and this man is Chinese.”

“The fact that opium is a sedative, and is more likely to put him into a slumber than a blind rage,” Vastra continues.

“The fact that there were no signs of sexual violence on any of the bodies,” Doyle chips in.

“Or the fact that opium use is extremely rare among the Chinese immigrant population of London, and that the opium den is primarily a figment of the popular imagination,” Vastra concludes, then turns to an embarrassed Doyle. “What?”

“Oops,” he says, blushing. “I'm afraid it's already gone to print.”

“What?” Jenny asks, eyes rolling.

“A story where Holmes infiltrates an opium den.” Doyle looks at his feet. “Sorry, you were out of town when I finished it.” 

Vastra covers her face with her hand. “Well, what's done is done. Spurlow, despite your rank ignorance, you may well have found someone of extreme importance to the case, either a witness or an accomplice. Kindly take your pigheadedness elsewhere, and send in our associates; there are some troublesome points of your account which I wish to examine with the accused.” Once Nellie, Henry, and Anaya have joined them, Vastra turns to the still-silent man, and speaks in a comforting yet firm tone. “While I have every wish to see you freed if you are innocent, I will happily see you hanged if you were responsible for any of these deaths. I must stress that while I am not part of the police, neither am I your lawyer. I would strongly recommend retaining counsel, preferably one capable of guiding your case through the criminal appeals system, as yours may be a difficult case.”

“Sorry, what?” Henry asks. “Criminal appeals system?”

“England doesn't have one yet,” Jenny whispers in Vastra's ear. “Sorry, she's from Siluria; they do things a bit differently there. And we don't often get involved on this end of things. Beg pardon, I don't believe I know your name?”

“Zhi Cong,” he tells them. “Call me Cong. And believe me, I know what it means to be from a different land.”

Jenny beams. At least they have gotten him to open up a little. That's the first step. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” she begins earnestly. He looks at Anaya, then to Vastra, and then to her again, and nods. “It is a little troubling that you've been seen in so many places where these murders have taken place.”

“Coincidence, I swear,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “My sister, Zhi Chen and I have not been in England for very long, perhaps a year at most. I went with her to the suffragette rally, but otherwise I have been looking for odd jobs, which takes me to some unusual places—there are not many willing to hire a native of China.”

“And the swords?” Vastra asks. She and Jenny both hope to meet a fellow enthusiast. 

“One of my odd jobs is as a sword-swallower,” Cong explains. “That is why I was at the circus. They are all sharp, but that is part of the show.” Vastra nods knowingly. “I juggle them as well, sometimes as a joint act with Chen.” He smiles, wryly yet proudly. “I am very grateful to Orlando for taking me on, and I have repaid him. We are very popular—more popular than a white couple performing an act of similar skill.” Now it is Anaya's turn to nod—if being of Indian descent is sufficient to make one into an attraction, she can only imagine the result of an actual act being performed by 'exotic' people.

“And what of the last victim, the one Spurlow claims to have seen you with?”

“I was walking home from a late performance when I heard screams.” He bows his head. “She had bled out by the time I reached her. I was carrying a bag of swords, of course, but none of them have any blood on them, of course. They could not find the weapon I used, which, I suspect, is why they have not brought me to trial.”

Jenny and Vastra step out of the cell to confer at a whisper. “What do you think?” Vastra asks. “I trust your judgment on him.”

“He seems trustworthy,” Jenny replies. “We should talk to his sister—I'll take Anaya. We can check their flat for clues as well.”

“A good thought,” Vastra seconds. “I want to stay here, and see if there is anything to be learned from DeMarco.”

“Excuse me,” Thompkins hands them a receipt from an inn. “I found this on the man you brought in; thought you might want to know about it.”

Vastra's eyes widen. “This includes three nights paid in advance, and it bears last night's date. Thank you, sir; we have either found DeMarco's lair, or another crime scene. Doyle and the others should pay this inn a visit—I will be amazed if there is nothing to be gleaned there.”

***

“Hello?” Anaya greets a young woman she presumes (rightly, as it soon turns out) to be Zhi Chen. “We're trying to help your brother.”

“Please, come in—I've been beside myself since I returned from the station.” She smiles. “I prayed for guidance, and here you are. Please come in.” She beckons to a small table with a few chairs around it. 

“Do you know anyone who could vouch for your brother?” Jenny asks. “Either as a person or as an alibi?”

Chen shakes her head. “We have not been in England long, and in London not very long at all. We have been traveling with the circus, and while we have made some friends there, but they are not always fond of mingling with society.” She looks quizzically at them. “Speaking of which, you don't seem like any friends of ours that I know.”

“We're not,” Anaya says guiltily. “But we are private detectives—we investigate things like this because it's what we do.”

“We can't pay you,” Chen says, honestly.

“Trust me,” Jenny tells her, “we're willing to do this for free. Your brother is accused of committing crimes which we're pretty sure were done by someone else who's been getting away from us for too bloody long now. We get your brother out of prison, it'll be that much easier to convict our man.”

Chen thinks this over for a moment and nods. “It is a matter of honor. I will be happy to help.”

Jenny smiles. “Do you mind if we look around a little? I'd like to see the rest of your sword collection, if I may.”

“Of course.” Chen produces a set of cases, and Jenny draws one. On the pretense of holding it up to the light, she walks over to the window, then flings it open and pulls the eavesdropper inside.

“Right, who in blazes are you?” she asks, aiming the blade at his chest.

“Edwin Colmenter,” he stammers, “London Herald.” His eyes flash nervously around the room.

“You!” Jenny exclaims. “You're the one who's been writing all those tall tales about us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm Jenny Flint,” she clarifies for him.

Edwin's eyes widen. “The Veiled Detective pieces.”

Jenny smiles wickedly and tosses the sword to her other hand. “Now we're getting someplace. So who put you up to writing those stories?”

“A reporter never reveals his sources,” Edwin vows.

Jenny snarls. “A reporter also checks his facts. And he also isn't an accomplice to murder.”

“What?” If she thought his eyes were wide before, she was mistaken. “You're one to talk, swinging that thing around. I wouldn't hurt a fly.” 

“Maybe so, but we think your source is strongly linked to a spate of murders committed by Clarence DeMarco.” Anaya informs him.

“What?” Edwin asks. “Sure, I report on the murders because they're newsworthy, but that doesn't mean I helped cause them. I'd heard the rumors linking Clarence to the killings, but that certainly doesn't make me his friend. You're grasping at straws if you think we're connected in any way.” 

Jenny glares at him, but it is clear that he has never met DeMarco. “Why all the stories about us, then? Surely there are plenty of things to write about in the city.”

Edwin licks his lips. “I get ideas from time to time. Crazy thoughts, you might say. I don't listen to any of them, but sometimes they sound like good ideas for a story.” He shrugs as best as he is able, flat on his back. “And yeah, some of them have been about you. But I just write what I see, same as I always have. After it goes to my editor, it's out of my hands. If you don't like it, you'll have to take it up with him.”

Jenny smiles wickedly. “Perhaps we shall.” She gestures with the sword. “Come on then.”

***

“Dr. Doyle,” Nellie asks, “Do you enjoy being married and having children?

“Of course,” he tells her. He does love Louisa dearly, but part of him cannot help but think of a ghost of a memory where another woman shared his passions and his dreams. “Though there is nothing wrong with delaying that pleasure for one so young,” he adds. “Why do you ask?”

“Merely curious,” she replies hastily. She blushes, and falls to the rear of the trio. Doyle's advice may be good in general, she decides, but she had had her tastes of young love with unsuitable gentlemen, and was now thinking rather firmly about settling down with someone rather more upstanding. She was beginning to think that Henry had blossomed into such a man, despite some of his past faults. (And it would have to be a man, she thinks to herself. She had seen how happy Jenny and Vastra, and Anaya and Mirabelle had made each other, but while she can appreciate such relationships for what they are, she had felt no glimmer of attraction for her fellow woman. Nor, she thinks, would it be fair to say that her experiences in the laundry had scarred her either. Lord only knew she had been attracted to one handsome boy after another before then, but that even the prettiest girl had failed to catch her eye. For that matter, two of her friends from the laundry had begun living together and raising their children as a family, and she rather suspects that they are romantically involved.) She isn't sure, mind you, and it would be a dreadful shame to ruin a perfectly good friendship and working relationship if she were wrong. Perhaps once they've sorted out all this nasty serial killer business, she would see about Henry.

Henry notes Nellie's question himself. If she is thinking about marrying, he decides, it can't be anything more than an abstract desire, given the way she brought her previous paramours around to visit. She certainly hasn't said anything to anyone, that he's heard. She might be keeping everything under wraps, he admits to himself, but that would be very different from the open, honest Nellie he knew and cared for. He'll have to ask her later, but not too much later, he decides. 

***

“Now we are alone,” Vastra tells DeMarco as the cell door clicks shut behind her. “Just you and me.” She smiles with the grin of a predator. “Alone, unarmed, and female,” she whispers. “Just the way you like us, is it not?” She sits, trying to look as vulnerable as possible, hoping to goad him into an attack. DeMarco merely smiles, eyes feral. Something cagey behind those eyes, something intelligent... “You are not as mad as you look, are you?” The same blank smile. “I've been reading the files on your past misdeeds. Each time more violent, more savage, but with fewer traces of you that anyone's been able to piece together. You have been very clever in covering your tracks—almost too clever. But then, being violent does not make you insane, nor does being insane make you violent.” She sits back and temples her gloved hands. “You are hiding something, something we do not yet know.” She shrugs. “You may as well tell us; we know you are working with someone in the papers.” A blank look flashed across his face. Fascinating, Vastra thinks, filing the datum effortlessly away. Perhaps he does not know the extent of the conspiracy. But if they are connected, then it must be by some unknown third party whom he does know. Perhaps the psychic field? “And after all, you shall be executed sooner rather than later, if I have anything to say in the matter.” She runs a quick scan confirming her hypothesis: distinct traces of a powerful psychic energy field.

“Good,” DeMarco replies, grinning evilly.

“Because he will be unable to get you there,” Vastra guesses. “But he can reach you in here, even now, reach into your mind.” She grins, rewarded by DeMarco's blanched expression, and presses her attack. “But he is not talking to you now—you are hoping he has finally let you go.” A tool, discarded when it has no further purpose. No purpose except to distract them and hold their attention. Her nose wrinkles. If DeMarco's capture and imprisonment is a trap, then she owes it to the women he's slain and their families to walk in willingly. “After so long, after he has talked to you more and more with every day...it must have been reassuring at first, after you killed your wife. That one is different, is it not? A fight gone wrong where all of the others have been deliberate and unprovoked. But now you would kill to make it stop, would you not?” A better woman may have been moved to sympathy and pity by DeMarco's condition, Vastra reflects, though she cannot see past the corpses of his victims. “Go on then,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Confess and sign your death warrant.”

***

“So, how long have you been tracking us?” Jenny asks, borrowed sword laid meaningfully across her legs in the carriage.

Edwin licks his lips as he looks at the steel. “Maybe a few months? Off and on, you know—I've got other irons in the fire.” Jenny nods; that syncs up with the stories. “All legitimate reporting, I assure you.”

“Yes, yes,” Jenny waves her hand dismissively. “And nobody paid you to exaggerate?” As Edwin shakes his head, she glances at the scanner concealed in her purse—slight traces of psychic energy. “Edwin,” she begins slowly. “This is a serious question, and I might be able to help you. You said that you heard voices sometimes, and that they gave you ideas. Were some of the voices different?” She pitches the last word neutrally; she doesn't want to lead him to the answer she suspects.

“Some of them, yes,” he says, pausing. “Some of the ones about you, whispering in my ear.” He regards them skeptically. “You can help me?”

“We can try,” Anaya promises. “And we're very good at what we do.”

Jenny leans over to speak quietly with Anaya. “That psychic field—there were traces on him.”

“This is all wrapped up together, or I'll eat my hat,” Anaya decides.

“You aren't wearing a hat—most unladylike,” Jenny chides her.

“Fiddlesticks,” Anaya retorts, sticking out her tongue, and the brief respite of laughter does them both good. Edwin simply stares at them until the carriage arrives.

“Here we are,” he announces, hopping out. 

“Won't you offer your hand to a lady?” Jenny asks sweetly. Edwin flinches, but sticks out his arm and helps Anaya, then Jenny from the carriage. “Sorry,” Jenny says, keeping her grip on his arm, “but it's going to be easier to get into his office with you. Bullfinch, was it?” Edwin nods uneasily. “Lead the way, then,” she says, and they follow Edwin up to Bullfinch's office. 

“What can I do for you and your...friends, Colmenter?” Bullfinch asks, and makes little effort to hide the fact that he is imagining Jenny and Anaya in various states of undress. Jenny makes little effort to conceal the fact that she wants badly to remove his balding head from his corpulent body.

“We've come to comment about some stories you've been publishing about us,” Jenny tells him outright.

Bullfinch squints at her face; Jenny suspects he hadn't bothered to look at it before. “You lot,” he says. “I'll not retract a single word.” Jenny glances over at Anaya, who has the scanner. To her surprise, the Indian girl shakes her head no. Acting on his own initiative, then, and she can guess why. “You and that foreign harlot, Vastra, can't be up to any good, running around the criminal underbelly of the city: murderers, burglars, opium dens and the like.” He gives a satisfied grunt. “Ought to be back home raising your families instead of tramping around with your gang of hoodlums.” He leans back and puts his feet up on his desk. “No better than common whores. Is it any wonder you haven't caught that DeMarco? You've probably got some sort of arrangement with him to bump off the competition.” He snaps his fingers. “Say, Colmenter, that's a fine theory—go write it up for me.” Furious, Jenny and Anaya leave, seeing that there is little they can do short of murder.

“What now?” Anaya asks. 

Jenny shrugs. “Let's go back to the prison, and see if madame needs any help.”

***

“Excuse me,” Doyle calls, flagging the inn's owner. “We were wondering if you know who rented this room?” He produces the receipt and hands it to the other man. 

The innkeeper looks over the paper, then heads behind his desk to look at his notes before snapping his fingers. “I remember that room now—bit strange it was. One man, big fellow, bald, comes in and pays for it. But he never visits again, and a scruffy looking man is the only one who uses it.” He shakes his head. “Not unheard of, but a bit strange,” he repeats. “What's the matter with it?”

“We're investigating a series of murders,” Doyle tells him, carefully leaving out the fact that he isn't with the police. 

The innkeeper raises his eyebrows, but shrugs, and takes the spare key and leads them upstairs. “I was about to clean the place out for the next guest anyway,” he explains.

“That went well,” Henry whispers to Nellie. 

“Not as though we couldn't have snuck in,” she replies, eyes twinkling. “But yes, this is better.” Henry shrugs. He wouldn't have pegged her for the reckless type, but people do surprise you.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Henry asks Doyle as the innkeeper fiddles with the door.

“Anything that might tie DeMarco to one of the killings,” Doyle explains. “A trophy perhaps, or—” He stops dead as the door swings open and the innkeeper steps aside. “Or a bloody knife, lying right on the table.” He coughs in surprise. “I can safely say that I did not expect to find this...” Regaining his composure, he turns to his young friends. “If the two of you would be so good as to tell Vastra what we have found, I will stay here and search for other clues and make certain that no-one interferes with the knife.

The innkeeper splutters. “Is that...? Do you mind if I sit down?” Doyle gives the chair in the corner a onceover, then nods. “I just want to assure you that I had no knowledge of what my boarder does in his spare time.”

“Of course,” Doyle reassures him.

“We'll just be off, then,” Nellie says, and she and Henry scramble down the steps. “This is all coming together too easily,” she confides in him.

“He had to make a mistake sooner or later,” Henry points out. “After all, nobody's perfect.”

“No,” Nellie replies distractedly, as if looking through Henry rather than at him. “No, I suppose not. Still, this ranks as one of the strangest things we've seen, and that's saying quite a lot.”

“We'll put the pieces together sooner or later,” Henry reassures her. “And we've got a dangerous criminal in prison,” he adds. “That's got to count for something.”

“Yes, that's true. Well, let's hurry, then,” and they both put their worries aside for the moment to dash through the crowds.

***

“What news, then?” Jenny asks as they gather in the police station.

“Either he can't confess, or he won't,” Vastra informs them with a snarl. “I wonder if he knows that he can drag an innocent man down with him, of if he is merely being influenced by that psychic field—there are traces of it on him.”

Jenny and Anaya exchange looks. “We may have stumbled upon the source of those nasty stories about us,” Jenny explains, and they go on to exchange details of what has just happened to each of them. 

Their description of Bullfinch causes Henry and Nellie to start, and it is their turn to recount what they have found. “He must be in it for his own reasons,” Anaya observes, “because there was no trace of psychic energy on him.”

“And three guesses as to what they were,” Jenny adds darkly. “Didn't like any of us, one bit. But you don't see me covering up murders to make somebody look bad.”

McGovern fishes out his pocket watch. “If we hurry, he should still be in his office.”

“Come on,” Jenny says, “I want to see the look on his face.”

***

When confronted with the knife and the innkeeper's testimony, Bullfinch breaks easily. A coward beneath his bluster, Jenny thinks derisively. Should've guessed; most bullies are. 

“I'll say anything you like,” he offers. “Just don't let this get out to the public.”

“You're an accessory after the fact,” McGovern reminds him.

“You'll say anything we like and be lucky you don't swing for it,” Jenny tells him as McGovern handcuffs the portly man. “Step lively now.” Bullfinch sighs with ill grace, and permits himself to be led back to the police station.

***

“What about me?” Edwin asks once Jenny and McGovern have left. “You said you could help,” he adds, regarding them warily. 

Almost unconsciously, they look to Anaya. I suppose I am the local expert, she realizes. “We're going to keep looking for whatever is causing the extra voices in your head,” she explains cautiously. “But for right now, you'll just have to ignore them.” She pauses. “I don't know that I can do anything for the usual voices,” she admits.

He smiles. “That's alright; I'm rather used to them by now. Fond of them, even.”

Anaya beams with relief. “Well, listen to them, then, I suppose. And you just might find that you're stronger than whatever comes along the pike,” she tells him confidently. 

Edwin nods, and tips his cap. “Thank you, miss,” he says. “If you don't mind, I'll just be on my way.” The others wave him goodbye, and then wave hello to Zhi Chen and Doyle, along with Strax, who has evidently just caught up with them after the day's running around.

“I had to work in the afternoon,” she explains. “But I came over to visit Cong. How is he?”

“Let's go in and see, shall we?” Vastra offers. She smiles as the siblings embrace. “I have every confidence that you will be released by this evening, Zhi Cong.”

“Thank you,” he says numbly. “I can never repay you for clearing my name.”

“It was our pleasure to help you,” Nellie sums up neatly. “That's what people do for each other.”

“We've all got to stick together,” Henry adds.

“I shall consider myself paid in full when Clarence DeMarco is tried and convicted,” Vastra swears. “Which reminds me, we must do something about the lack of a criminal appeals system. But until then, I wish you the best of luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, before the historical notes: I'm trying very hard to make sure the blame in this story is justly apportioned, depending on the state of mind of person in question. But I'll go ahead and put my interpretation out in black and white. Collmenter is guilty of nothing more than naivety and mental illness, neither of which are crimes. (No, I am not going to diagnose him; I'm not a doctor.) He doesn't think he's doing anything wrong, and I don't know that he really has done. Bullfinch is an out-and-out jackass with some wrong-headed ideas about society who goes to extreme lengths to silence those who would oppose him by example; he does not represent an actual journalist. Clarence DeMarco is wholly responsible for his wife's death, the first murder he committed. It's only after he suffers the mental strain from that act that the psychic field is able to act upon him. He's still likely responsible in some degree for the other killings; I feel like sometimes he was acting under duress, but other times he knew full well what he was doing. Onto the notes.
> 
> The biggest one is that the English criminal appeals system gets invented in 1906 as a (partial) result of Arthur Conan Doyle helping a half-Farsi man get his conviction tossed. I knew that had to go in at some point as soon as I read his biography. 
> 
> The other is about opium dens. The story that Doyle refers to is The Man with the Twisted Lip, and it's one of many stories exaggerate the prevalence of opiate use in Victorian London (though other cities at the time apparently did have problems with the stuff). Similarly exaggerated were the numbers of Chinese immigrants during the period. Let's just say The Talons of Weng-Chiang and leave it at that.


End file.
